Curiosita
by Aliet Faslami
Summary: Curiosita, one of DaVinci's principles of the mind. Refers to the pursuit of knowledge through the constant asking of questions. Far from what he knows, our beloved Thief finds himself in possession of the answers...
1. Knife in the Back

---Nothing is mine, except the obvious original characters. Any questions will be explained in time, this is basically just in introductory chapter, and latter chapters will focus more on explanation… Don't worry, you won't be left in the dark forever. Unless you prefer it that way.---

CURIOSITA

I. Knife in the Back

"I told you to tie him down!"

The doctor cradled her bleeding hand, managing to keep calm, despite the struggle behind her. Her voice rose slightly to compensate for the sound. "We did!" she snapped, eyes flashing. The man next to her cracked his nuckles, a habit born out of nerves that cigarettes failed to soothe.

"And he still got an arm free?"

"Yes, he did. You think I cut my own hand?" Her tone could be just as cold as his could. She allowed herself a glace behind her, where two more men, wearing the standard white of the facility, wrestled with another on a gurney. The two on top were the typical size for their job, brawny, over six feet in height, making their opponent look all the more slight. Nevertheless, the smaller man managed to get an arm free now and again, slashing randomly with the same silver dagger that had scratched the doctor's hand only minutes before. She caught a flash of bloodstained cloth and leather. "You didn't tell us he would still be conscious when you hauled him back."

He shrugged. "I didn't know he was. If you people can't get him under control..." The threat hung in the air.

With a scowl, the woman pulled a syringe from her pocket and uncapped it. "I was really hoping you'd make this easy on me for a change," she said. Her shoes made efficient taps on the ground as she moved towards the gurney. Her eyes met the struggling bodies. It was nothing new. Most patients fought like this when they came. Practice made her job easier, but the struggle always complicated matters. She reached for the patient's leg, the only part that was not involved in fighting back. The leather was cold to the touch, temperature making it difficult to manuver. She managed somehow, and slid the needle home.

There was a cry, either of surprise or anger. Both guards leapt back. The woman noted with smug satisfaction that one held the dagger in his hand. Behind her came a grunt; their observer was impressed. She looked into the face of the patient, ready to deliver the usual speech about them taking care of everything. The words died on her tongue at the sight of him.

His face could have been carved by a knife. Every part straight, sharp, and thin, matching the rest of his body. Minute lines around the mouth and eyes were the only indication of his age. A scar ran from the top of his right temple, across his eye, and down to the middle of his cheekbone. She was used to scars. What really stopped her was the eye itself, blazing a green too bright to be natural. She held in a gasp.

"You really found him," she breathed. "You found Garrett..."

A hand slid around her waist, its owner sliding up behind her. "Of course we did. You expected something less?" His voice was warm in her ear as his hand worked slowly through tangled blonde curls. "We always find what we're looking for… no matter the century."

She almost leaned back into his touch. "For a bunch of bookworms, you people aren't so bad…" Her mind came back to her, bringing its usual lot of troubles. Something was amiss. She took a step towards the gurney, trusting the sedative to have done its work. Things she'd missed in the initial, panicked exam sprang up to meet her gaze, and she frowned. "Bryce, is there something I need to know?"

"What?" he followed her, once again trying to slip his arms around her waist. "You okay?"

"I am, but he isn't!" She pointed an accusing finger at the still form on the gurney. "How exactly DID you get him here?"

Bryce held up his hands, looking as innocent as possible. "Nothing even remotely harmful! We wanted him alive after all!"

In contrast to his statement, the form on the gurney jerked, coughing fit to wake the dead. Blood flecked the corners of his mouth when he finished, collapsing back down in the grip of the tranquilizers. His breathing was too shallow to be the fault of the drugs. The doctor in her cringed. She moved to his side, arranging the stethoscope in her ears as she raked her eyes down his body. Good, the lungs were clear. That ruled out what she'd originally feared. "I want to know," she snapped, continuing to examine him. "I want to know exactly what you did to get him here."

"Claire…"

"Tell me!"

He sighed. "We didn't hit him with anything untested," he said, folding his arms. "It never caused this sort of reaction in the trials. We thought it was honestly safe!" Bryce paced, feeling his pockets for a cigarette. "It hit him, he didn't go down. We gave chase, lost him for a few days, then found him in an alley, unconscious." His perfect brows drew together in a scowl. "Pulled him back through the hole. And that's all."

"Whatever you did, it's affecting the respiratory system." She signaled to the guards, who followed her, pushing the gurney between them. Bryce's footsteps were silent, only his angry noises gave his presence away. "I wish you damned Keepers would learn that not all of your gadgets are foolproof."

"I got him here, didn't I?" he shot back.

"And that's another thing! You people never left him alone back then!" The steady verbal abuse didn't stop, even as her fingers flew across her patient, hooking up the respirator, checking pulse and limbs. A nurse drifted in, ready to assist. "That ankle looks sprained. No frostbite, you're lucky for that. Start an IV, I don't want him too dehydrated."

A wise silence. "Look, I can't tell you why we need him, that's the Elders' private information. All I can say is that had we left him back when he was, our past incarnations would never have let him be." One of his hands squeezed her shoulder as she worked. "Here, we have one job, that's it. One job. And then he's free to terrorize the City on his own."

She ignored him. "We'll treat it as an allergic reaction." The razor-thin body convulsed again in coughs. "If something happens to him…"

"Claire, you're being ridiculous."

There was more quiet. Claire ignored him consistently, focusing all her attention on the patient. He ceased to be the legend of old, becoming, to her professional mind, nothing more than another poor soul the Keepers' meddling had sent to their private treatment center. Where they got the funding to keep the place running would always be a mystery to her. Bryce's information was limited to what the almighty Elders allowed him to say. It didn't matter that she worked for them, unless she turned into one of the damned bookworms herself, she would never know their secrets. However…

However, this man on the gurney before her knew more than even Bryce. Maybe, with a few words in the right places, she could finally be rid of the big annoyance. Maybe Garrett could provide the answers Bryce was so unwilling to give. She smiled faintly.

No one would know the reason behind her excitement for this project. Let them dream up preposterous motives, such as revenge or blackmail. Her desire was nothing more than pure, untainted, curiosity. Claire wanted answers, and the only one who would be willing to give them was dead by hundreds of years. A lot had changed in the City since his escapades made the legends. Cars replaced horses, electricity took over from gas and torches, and guns were exchanged for bows. It was even more dangerous, if that could be believed, than when the Thief had roamed the streets. The thought of bringing him forward, using the mysterious "glyphs" Bryce spoke at length of, sent shivers of excitement up her spine. If they could do it, if they could bring him from the past, they would need her. Claire knew how to reassure the Keepers' victims—as she called them—in a way that others failed to mimic.

However, there were always potential flaws in a plan. Her interrogation scheme was no different. If any of the stories were to be believed, the Thief would never speak willingly to someone like her. _Hell_, she thought. _He'd probably kill me same as look at me._ And, there was always the chance the Keepers would whisk him off as soon as she pronounced him fit. No matter, she could work around it. So long as Bryce kept his nose out of her business, and, so long as he didn't kill the Thief.

Satisfied the nurse could handle things, she left the room. Bryce followed, ever the shadow. "I'm sorry," he tried. "We didn't mean for him to be injured."

"It's just making my job harder," she snapped. "You're the one that told me all those stories about him, about how he cares less about who he kills, so long as he's paid. How the hell do you think he'll react to this?"

He sank down into a plastic-covered chair. His loose, dark clothes stood out painfully in the white of the hallway. "You can handle him, Claire," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. "And, if not, you're surrounded by—"

"Surrounded by Keepers." She rolled her eyes. "I know. And we both know how well you people did during that whole… Betrayer fiasco."

His fists clenched. "He's injured, in a new City…" Gray eyes glared up at her. "I think we can take him. He won't know what to do."

"You forgot to add 'pissed as hell' to that list."

"Claire…"

It was only to shut him up that she sat neatly in his lap, draping an arm around his shoulders. "I'm just worried," she said. "For you and for him." Delicately, she twirled a lock of hair around a finger. "I don't want to see you spitted on the end of an arrow."

He sighed, taking her hand. The cut was scabbed over already. "And I don't want to see you stabbed in the back." His lips were soft against the back of her hand. "Be careful around him…"

She almost laughed. "I don't think I'm the one that needs to be careful…"

…_I'm not the one who's ending up with a knife in the back…_

"Care for a drink?"

"No, I need to watch him, make sure your tricks don't give him an early grave."

Bryce laughed. "If you could call living three hundred years after your death an early grave."

Her laugh, this time, was natural.

---More to come.---


	2. My Kingdom for a Blackjack

--Again, I don't own anything. Though, I really, really wouldn't mind owning a certain Thief...--

II. My Kingdom for a Blackjack

Everything was a haze.

_What exactly happened…?_

Only vague images would surface, and even then, grudgingly. His head hurt. It throbbed in angry rhythm with his ankle. Every so often, he'd swim up to consciousness, only to be dragged back down again in a fit of copper-flavored coughing.

_Damn it… that's right…the arrow…ambush…_

His first thought had been that he was getting careless. It was just too easy, lately. The chaos in the streets a few weeks past kept the watch too busy to watch for thieves. Pickings had never been better. One job a week was more than enough to keep him living comfortably. All you had to do was cover your tracks in the snow, and you could walk right into some of the nobles' manors.

And then that arrow had come from nowhere… 

It wasn't pleasant to be on the receiving end of his best trick. With the way the gas made a person feel, it was a small wonder he was on everyone's bad side. He'd come out of it, wide-awake, but with a nagging cough that refused to go away. Apparently, they hadn't expected him to stay on his feet, for he'd left them in the street, wondering where their quarry had gone to.

At least the watch was busy… 

The dash back to the South Quarter left him gasping painfully for breath, crouched in his apartment with a twisted ankle and numb fingers. Curse after curse left his lips as he locked the place down, burned no candles, and dared only a small fire. Paranoia was one of the reasons he was still alive. After a week, it was apparent the potions were doing no good. The cough persisted, bringing with it small flecks of red. He had his pride, if nothing else, and refused to be brought down by some infection.

_Oh the irony! The master thief dies in a cold apartment from a diseased gas arrow… I'd never hear the end of it…_

Against any good judgment, he struck out for the nearest fence. It was doubtful any of them could help on their own, but connections were everything, and someone who knew someone was bound to know a useful personage. And, it was on the way, he wound up sprawled in the cold shadows, an easy target for whoever was in the mood for his blood.

_Then what happened…?_

Everything between falling to the ground and this dim sense of consciousness was a bright blur. There was a memory of being grabbed, and he knew he'd stabbed at the hands out of instinct, but the attacker's face was a blank.

_Damn it all… where am I?_

He felt something in his throat, along with straps across his limbs and chest. The pain was there, but duller, further away. It was not a comfortable feeling, adding to the faint sense of panic at his predicament. Light poked under his eyelids, forcing the heavy things up, the right eye adjusting with a few soft clicks.

Too much light. He had to fight an urge to roll away, to get under the cover of shadow, if there was any in this place. Soft pinging to the right of him—reminding him faintly of all the nights spent slipping through the Hammers' factories. For a moment, all he could see was whiteness, blinding white. He couldn't focus. Struggling was useless, and drained his strength. Too weak? That was never good.

A shadow blocked the light.

"He's waking up… give him another dose…" Something that felt like fingertips stroked across his forehead. He wanted to duck away, but weakness prevented even that small movement. "I heard the Elders want him moved sooner or later… if he's awake, it'll cause too many problems…"

'_Elders'? I should've known…_

He slipped back down into unconsciousness, taking the memory of the woman's voice with him.

- - -

Bryce resisted the urge to twirl the in the chair. Despite the lack of movement on the cameras, the Elders wouldn't appreciate one of their subordinates playing on the job. They already distrusted him due to his involvement with Claire, and disliked her for her strange attraction to their captive. He frowned. Even his patience was put to the test since Claire had taken over the care of Garrett.

To be fair, he never liked the man, even in the stories. Unpredictability was something he couldn't tolerate, and unpredictability was the essence of the Thief. It was no small satisfaction to see him so incapacitated, tied to a bed, stuck full of tubes and machines. They made sure to keep the room brightly lit, ensuring there would be no sudden disappearing act. He was helpless. What would Claire think of her hero now?

"Does something amuse you…?"

He spun, embarrassed to be caught unaware. "Elder Davis," he stuttered. "No, I was only keeping an eye on things…"

The old man loomed behind him, eyes glued to the monitors. Blue eyes that were far too bright for his age followed Claire as she made her notes in the room next-door. They flicked back to the still form on the bed. "You will speak with him when he awakens." It was not a question. "Inform him of what we require."

Bryce had to fight the urge to scowl. While the success of this project could very likely catapult him into the higher ranks of the Keepers, Elder Gregory Davis still made his skin crawl. It was the way his eyes looked at you, as if you were a bug, or some line of poor grammar. You were always below his deep consideration. "Yes, Elder," he murmured, turning his attention back to the screens. "When will we be moving him?"

"Tomorrow. However, the doctor is instructed to keep him incapacitated for another two days," Davis said. "It will be far easier to set up the systems without looking over our shoulders." He moved closer to the monitors, noting the captive's faint struggles with silent disapproval. To Bryce's utter embarrassment, Claire drifted in, speaking quickly to the nurse. He clenched his fists, fighting the tide of jealousy as her dainty fingers ran across the other man's forehead, soothing him back to sleep.

The shift in the air did not go unnoticed by Elder Davis. "Remember, sentiment leads to roads unbalanced. I would hate to lose you down such a path," the old man reminded him. "That you care for this woman, we have allowed. But we will not make such exceptions, should you grow jealous of her fondness for another."

He only nodded. The eyes of his Elder shifted away from him, back to the screens.

"And, either way, neither of us will be troubled by Garrett any longer…"

Elder Davis left soon after, but Bryce did not notice. He was too busy smiling in anticipation.

- - -

The harsh light was gone. In its place was a simple candle, halfway burned. The bonds were gone as well. He was free. So, he did what anyone else in his position would have done. In one smooth movement, he was under the bed, invisible. However, had anyone been in the room, his swearing would have given him away instantly.

He'd forgotten the ankle.

Closer inspection showed it to be bound, the cloth stretched around both the ankle and a pair of stiff, not-quite-metal strips. The whole contraption easily fit the contours of a limb, but did nothing to stop the pain. He grit his teeth, refusing to let anymore words come, just in case. Paranoia had gotten him this far. He'd be damned if it didn't get him further.

No one else was in the room, so he eased out from under the bed. Someone had taken the time to pull him off the streets and bind his ankle. He wanted to know just who it was. He was not in his apartment, nor was he anywhere he'd ever seen before. At least it wasn't a prison cell. The walls of the square little room were not stone, nor were they wood. They looked almost whitewashed, if whitewashing could erase the gaps between boards. A rug covered the floor from wall to wall; it looked tan or some equally bland color. He could see two doors, but no windows—troubling, to say the least.

Leaning against the wall behind the bed, he weighed his options. For the first time, he checked for his gear. Nothing. Not even a dagger, not even his clothes remained. Instead of the close-fitting leathers and hood, someone had put him in loose pants and a looser shirt, all rough cotton. They itched.

He felt horribly exposed. It was a feeling he was unused to, and avoided at all costs. As if in response to his unease, a cough built up in his throat. He fought it down. Despite the silence, there could be something hostile beyond one of those doors. The idea forming was against his better judgment. Nevertheless, he killed the candle's flame, taking the metal base as a simplistic, if effective, weapon. The darkness surrounded him, safe, secure, blinding darkness. He heard his eye click. Nothing could be done about that, though.

The ankle was a problem, but the darkness helped. He moved to the closest door, prying it open a crack, barely enough to see through. Nothing but a strangely elaborate bathroom, once again, without windows. He closed the door. The next one opened without a sound, but he kept to the shadows, scanning the unfamiliar area.

It looked, upon first inspection, like an inn. A sofa and armchair sat closest to the door, surrounding a fireplace. An oil lamp burned on the small table between them. Beyond the dimness, white light glowed in what appeared to be some sort of elaborate kitchen area, adorned with a large, white safe. There was no other person in the room. No windows, no door save a thick metal contraption that would require far too much force to open, should he try now. He moved forward, always in shadow, always biting his lip, in case he put too much weight on his protesting ankle. It was likely there were knives in the kitchen area, and even an eating knife would be of more comfort than a candlestick.

No way to turn off the bright lights, so he found himself fighting the urge to flee into a cupboard while he searched. The venture turned up with all manner of dishes—bowls, plates, cups—but nothing sharper than a butter knife. He swore colorfully. Being weaponless brought up memories he preferred not to dredge up. Still swearing, he slid the knife into a pocket.

The humming safe drew his attention then. No lock picks, but there didn't seem to be a lock to pick either. He pulled the latch, cautiously, just in case it was rigged. A gust of cold air hit him in the face; _that_ was something he was unprepared for. He jerked back, almost rolling before he remembered not to, and stared into the harsh light the safe emitted. More cold air rolled out.

Ah, so that's what it was. He'd heard about these. Cold-safes… places to keep food fresher, or something like that. Though, how cold could make bread last longer, he didn't know. There was food in this one, slices of meat, cheese and apples. Two bottles of what could only be wine stood next to the food. For once, he threw caution away, concentrating only on stating the sudden hunger gnawing at him. He finished off several slices of meat and cheese, and was halfway through an apple before taking another superstitious look around.

_There it is again… Damn it. I am careless!_

Without another thought, he was back in the shadow of the bedroom, the candlestick gripped tightly. The footsteps grew closer. He did not move, barely breathed, until the metal door slid open, silently. The effect made him shift slightly, uncertain. This place got stranger and stranger by the minute.

With a deep, soundless breath, he prepared to meet whoever came through the door.


End file.
